


This Systematic Dysfunction

by escapedreality



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 10,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4466663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escapedreality/pseuds/escapedreality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whoever thought they led these perfect lives was sorely mistaken. Exploring the Next Generation, one kid at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teddy Lupin

**Author's Note:**

> It's not my favorite of the series, but it was a start. But Lupin is one of my favorite HP characters so I'm just assuming Teddy would be too.

i. this sympathy is sickening

You've never really (quite) fit in. You aren't part of the ever expanding Potter-Weasley clan (no matter how much they try to include you). You aren't even  _technically_  part of the 'next-generation'.

Your generation is the same as your godfather's, the one filled with survivors and war heroes (but you don't fit in there either, hell you were only a couple weeks old when the war ended).

You don't (really) fit in at Hogwarts. To start, you're a metamorphagus and if you had sickle for every time someone asked you to teach them how to be one you would be (filthy) rich.

And if you had a knut for every sypathetic glance, gesture, comment that comes your way, well you'd be even richer.

Because it's the way McGonagall's face  _softens_ (and yeah, McGonagall) every time she sees you. Every damned time Trelawny (why did you ever take that class?) tells you about the horrors in your past.

(No shit. Why don't you actually predict the future instead?)

It's anytime someone says they 'knew' your mum or your dad and they tell you what great people they were.

(But that's bullshit. These people didn't give a rat's ass about your parents. All they know are these booksbooksbooks.)

And for Merlin's sake don't even start on the books.

The (newly revised) history books are pretty bad but nothing could compare to sixth year, Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Subject? Werewolves.

And soon as Professor Feeney  _mentions_ that in rare cases that there is the  _tiniest_ inkling of a possibility that  _sometimes_ _possiblymaybe_ lycanthropy can be passed down there is this collective clatter.

And you look up and look around and every in the room has moved just a smidgen away from you.

(and they know your father was werewolf. They learned it from those history books)

And you see the movement and you're turn between the urge to yell, cry, throw up or maybe just laugh like a maniac. Because these are the same people who for six years have patted you on the back, or giving a sympathetic look every. single. time. the. war. was. brought. up.

But now none of it matters apparently. It doesn't even matter to them they know for absolutelypositivelycertain that you did NOT inherit this trait.

All that matters is that old habits die hard and no matter what the Ministry spews out prejudice is going to abound.

(and when it does, it almost relieves you, this concrete evidence that all the sympathy is fake).


	2. Victoire Weasley

ii. this life is only semi-charmed

They say her life is charmed, that she has everything going right for her. That she's perfectperfectperfect.

She has long blonde hair and these bright blue eyes and her waist is thin (but not too thin).

She's Head Girl, and second in her class.

She has every boy wrapped around her finger.

She a Weasley for crying out loud! Her life must be fantastic, right? ( _right?_ )

They say they know her, they say she's perfect,

But they don't know anything.

They have no clue how it was, to be the first Weasley of her generation and not to be sorted into Gryffindor. Ravenclaw is a nice house too, her parents assured but she couldn't help but miss the slight  _disappointment_  in her father's eyes.

They have no clue how Dominique practically  _loathes_  her and she doesn't have a damned clue why. How every time she looks at her, her eyes are filled with disgust, annoyance and a myriad of other things Victoire just can't figure out.

They tell her how  _adorable_  it is that she's going out with the same person she has been best friends with her whole life. But she knows she's not his best friend anymore (because it's Lily freakin' Potter who has him wrapped around her finger)

And she knows that Teddy Lupin is not the person she loves either.

(but he is the next best thing so she deals.)

They have no clue about the temper she has. And how one of these days everything is just going to burst out of this carefully constructed dam.

(and three people people in particular better build their arcs now)

These people say she's got it made and so yeah, she has some good things going for her,

But there are things that even out the good so let's just say this life is only  _semi-_ charmed.


	3. Louis Weasley

iii. this closet is suffocating

Your first kiss was in fifth year. When Victoire asked (excitedly) who it was, you told her Caitlyn Doherty.

_You lied._

You told her you went out with Sally Duncan in sixth year.

_You lied._

(but it's alright, she wasn't at school anymore anyway)

You lied to your older sister twice, you have never had a girlfriend and you certainly never kissed Caitlyn Doherty.

(but Victoire was happy to accept whatever shit came out of you mouth as true, so these  _lies_  worked)

And then seventh year came around and there were just more  _lies and nagging_. Vic, so wrapped up with Teddy still found time to badger you about your own love life.

And when you told her you were just focusing on your NEWTs she believed you. And so did your mum, and dad.

But you know Dom didn't. Because you know she's good at seeing through these  _lies._

(or maybe it was because she saw you snogging Jeremy Walker)

But she didn't care, all she said was one sentence.

"Just tell them."

And so you said you would, and you tried.

But then seventh year was finished and these  _lies_  were followed by more  _lies_  and now you're practically drowing in a pool of  _lies._

Like how you're moving to France for work (You just don't want to face the family)

How you're thinking of proposing to your girlfriend (Bullshit. She doesn't exist.)

And they just eateateat all the  _lies and bullshit_  up without any second thoughts.

Except for Dom, who sends you an letter containing just one sentence.

_Just tell them._

You write back, promising you will soon.

(and then you burn her letter, watching the flames consume the paper like the  _all the lies_  consuming you.)


	4. Dominique Weasley

iv. this difference is amazing

She always wondered how it was possible to want to stand out and blend in at the same time.

How she could stand out so far from her sister, even her brother. (but really, it was mostly Victoire.)

Because Victoire  _shined_  with her perfect grades, perfect long blonde hair, perfect body, perfect boyfriend. How everyone liked her and thought she was amazing. The apple of their mother's eye.

And then there was her, little ol' Dominque, with the short red hair and dark blue eyes. With freckles all over, not the cute little splattering across her face.

(and she swears she must of been a mistake)

She could never live up to Vic's standard, never be her mother's perfect little girl. She knows it was petty to resent her sister, but how could she not? How could she not when she was forever being compared to someone she could never be?

So she chose (made) her own path. And it as unfolded, farther and farther away from her mum and sister, the better it felt. The difference, the rebelliousness.

The Slytherin house's very own Weasley.

_(and she fit in)_

She was bold as brass. Clever, cunning. Fiery hair and an attitude to match.

She chat it up with kids several years older than herself. She squirmed her way onto the previously all-boys Quidditch team in her third year and proved herself a fearsome beater.

People respected her and it felt so good to not live in someone else's shadow. At school she wasn't Vic's little sister, she was Dom Weasley, Slytherin.

And she delved further and further into this personality until little ol' Dominque had all but vanished. She barely gave her old self a glance back. She wore a satisfied smirk every time she saw Victoire's incredulous face, the slight disappointment in her mother's eyes.

Yet, still some resentment lingered. Because she had tried and fought so damn hard to be her own person, to get out of the goddamn shadow and Victoire had barely lifted a finger to be the way she was. Because deep down somewhere she longed to be like her sister, doing everything with elegant ease. Deep down she desperately wanted her mother's approval.

But she was this new Dom, the cunning clever Slytherin, in so deep that it was impossible to ever make her way out.

So she pushed on and played up her character, pushing the resent and longing to the deepest recesses of her mind.

(but they were still there and never went away)


	5. Roxanne Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So begins the chapter where I try to explore problems bigger than sibling rivalry.

iv. ignoring only works for so long

_"Well, well, a-at least I don't look like I'm covered in dragon dung!"_

Shock. She couldn't muster any other emotion at James. The fight had been something stupid, and so maybe she hadn't been exactly kind in her comments either but this was just l o w.

(and unfortunately for him, she wasn't the only one who heard it.)

_"James Sirius Potter! What did you just say?"_

Profuse apologies, delivered punishments.

(but it doesn't make the sting go away)

Soon as the Potters had left, she had run crying to her mother. Because her mother would understand.

_"Sweetie, don't listen to him! He was just being a stupid six year old boy. You're too young to care what any boy thinks! And besides, your skin is beautiful, it's the color of chocolate. Just like mine right?"_

A giggle, a small smile, an agreeing nod.

And the comments were washed away from the front of her memories.

.

_"Roxie doesn't need to tan! She's already so dark!"_

Ignore. That was her mantra, just ignore it. Lily was only five, she didn't know any better.

It still stung.

To simply want to lay out in the last few days of the summer sun with her cousins and be told  _she_ _doesn't need to tan._

But she ignored it, and let the sun evaporate the comments.

.

_"What is up with your hair?"_

It's her first time on the train and she really hopes that girl isn't in her house.

There's nothing wrong with her hair, she actually likes it quite a but. Her mum spent nearly an hour braiding it. And just because it's not like her cousins hair doesn't mean there's something _wrong_  with it.

_"There isn't anything wrong with it."_

_"Oh, sorry,"_ No she isn't,  _"It just forcefully reminded me of those disgusting licorice sticks."_

IgnoreIgnoreIgnore.

Another compartment opens and she wants to jump for joy. Because it's only been 10 minutes into her Hogwarts experience and she wants to go home.

_"Don't listen to her, she's in my year and a Ravenclaw. She thinks she's all that. And for the record, I love your braids."_

Thank Merlin for Louis.

.

_"Aw she's going to have the cutest baby! Blond hair and blue eyes! I'm so jealous!"_

She stared at her classmates, who were busy discussing one of their Professor's maternity leave. Blond and blue? Is that what made a cute child?

_"You want a blond haired, blue eyed baby?"_

_"Well, yeah. Always have, they're the cutest!"_ The girl falters, realizing who she's speaking to,  _"I mean, I-"_

Roxanne says nothing and walks away, ignoring her classmates sputtering.

Ignore.

(because isn't that what she has always done?)


	6. Lysander Scamander

vi. this is what's called non-association

He can't stand pointing. Not at him, not as his father, not his brother.

And he supposes not at his mother either.

(But hey, she's the one asking for it)

He can't stand the comments.

(They start on the platform, they endure all year)

He can't stand being that "Scamander kid"

Because there's always pointing and comments because his Mum is a loony and his brother is going the same way and his father pretends not to notice.

And he would give anything not to be associated.

.

"Did you see Scamander? Wearing a flippin' necklace!" A guffaw from the Hufflepuff compartment.

"I heard it's made of butterbeer corks, and it was his mum's!" More laughter and Lysander scowled as he stormed by their compartment, into his own and plopped down on the seat.

Molly was already there and wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. He didn't notice though, not really. He was too busy watching his brother.

"And-" Dom paused, running her hand through her short hair trying to remember her statement.

(and looking very pretty doing so)

"Wha'smatter? Nargles?" Lorcan suggested. Dom gave a grin.

"Maybe."

(and then he couldn't take it anymore)

"What are you so fucking weird!" he roared at his twin, standing up and knocking Molly onto the floor. Dom giggled in the corner, but he didn't notice.

"What the hell Ly?" Lorcan demanded, standing up along with his brother. They faced each other, both looking so similar but both being so different.

"You're a loon Lor, do I have to spell it out? You're a loon and I'm associated with you! I don't want to spend my seventh year at Hogwarts listening to how odd my family is. You are wearing a fucking necklace for crying outloud! And you're asking me what my problem is!" He shouted, practically seething.

"Have you ever considered you're the odd one Ly? Hmm?" Lorcan was far too calm and it was only infuriating him more.

"No, no I'm not odd, I'm not the one talking about fucking nargles and shit all the time!" and he couldn't think of anything else to say, couldn't put his annoyance into words.

And so he simply left the compartment.

.

Being alone is a wonderful thing.

So is an empty compartment.

Then, as if fate deemed it necessary to mock him, the door slid open.

"You are a bloody arse, y'know that?" Anger was laced with the words and the voice so familiar that he didn't even look up.

"Go away Dom."

Wrong thing to say.

"I can't believe, I really can't fucking believe you. Trust me, I know how it is to be associated with someone you don't like. Don't dare play 'misunderstood' with me Lysander John Scamander!"

He looked up at her for the first time, her eyes were blazing at him.

She was really, really pretty.

"What? What the hell have you been smoking?"

He really didn't think he said that aloud.

"Dom I-"

"No. No. You are such a prick. You selfish, ignorant piece of shit. Do you ever think of someone else?" Her fists were balled up at her side, her knuckles turning very white. Without a further word she turned on heel and stomped out.

That happened a lot.

With his mum, his brother, Dom.

And as he sat there, Indian-style and staring at the ceiling he thought, for the first time, that maybe Lorcan was right. Maybe he was the odd one out.

Either way he got his wish, he wasn't associated.


	7. Lorcan Scamander

vii. this is the ultimate secret

He kept a lot to himself.

Everyone assumed he was anti-social, a little loony. Just like his mother.

But they would be shocked at the things he knew. He was something like a collector of secrets, both big and small. Some frivolous, some serious. But they were all stored away for further use.

When Roxanne was despairing last year on Valentine's Day, moping that she had no one he made sure a little Valentine note found her.

(And so what if it was anonymous? It still made her smile.)

He was well aware of the fact that McGonagall had offered Teddy Lupin a teaching position- and that he had declined because he didn't think he could ever be able to teach Lily Potter in a formal situation. Not that he told Mcgongall that was his reason.

He knew Thom Nott's father had tried to slice the Dark Mark off his skin using a dull paring knife- forcing Thom to rush him to St. Mungo's because he had no clue how to fix the wound.

He always sat quietly in class and teachers never thought twice about speaking to one another in front of him.

So he found out that the portrait of Professor Snape constantly talked to himself, grieving about what he could have done differently.

He heard that Dumbledore's portrait never spoke, even when McGonagall asked him a question. That he moved so little that the Headmistress swore he could have been a muggle painting.

Yes, Lorcan Scamander knew all these things and more.

But on top of all that, he knew his mother was dying.

He was the only one she told, and she had made him promise that he would never utter her secret to a soul. Not his father, not his brother.

Lorcan doubted whether Ly would have even cared.

The pain of the secret made him ache, the same may the disease made her ache. He struggled to put on a smile as she struggled to stay alive another day. He wondered how she could be dying if she showed no outward signs. She wondered how she could be dying now, after surviving all those years of war.

But she asked him so he kept the horror to himself, buried deep inside his head

(in his heart)

And he kept his calm demeanor, never rose to any bait. He remained the odd one, that Scamander kid, the one no gives a second glance.

The one who knows all the secrets.

Because he's 99 percent sure if he has to talk to too many people everysinglething he's been told, or heard, or seen.

Will come a  _tumbling_ out of his mouth,

and into the ears, brains,  _hearts_  of those who hear.

.

So he kept to himself a lot.


	8. James Potter

viii. like father, like son

James Sirius Potter was his father's son.

To start, he was a Gryffindor.

He was completely obsessed with Quidditch and absolutely loved to be in the air.

His best subject was Defense Against the Dark Arts.

He had a mess of uncontrollable hair which often was long enough to cover the tops of his glasses.

He never was named a prefect.

And on top of it all, he was in love with a red head. Like his father, like his grandfather.

(not that he was dating her)

No, he walked through the halls holding his girlfriend's hand, a petite little thing with long straight (boring) brown hair and a round face with a cute button nose, (wish-washy) blue eyes and a (n okay) splattering of freckles across her nose. Kelsey Finnigan.

And he walked through the halls dreaming of a mass of bright red curls that framed a thin face. With dark brown eyes and freckles all over her body. Rose Weasley.

And he knew it was (soso) so wrong and he realized he was (soso) so sick but it didn't change a thing.

It didn't change how he cringed every time he saw her with Scorpius (fucking) Malfoy.

It didn't change how his heart started racing when he saw her.

It didn't change how he wished is was James&Rose and not James&Kelsey and Scorpius&Rose

No, even though he  _disgusted_  himself and  _scolded_ himself and yelled at himself about how it was (soso) so wrong,

It didn't change on god forsaken thing.

Certainly not that he was a Potter,

Not that all Potters seemed doomed to fall in love with those red-haired girls.

(even when it wasn't good for them)


	9. Molly Weasley

ix. the highest form of flattery

She was the reclaimed artist, the  _l'artiste_.

Fashion forward with the cute little dresses and dainty flats. With the long _long_  rust colored hair and deep brown eyes. She constantly lugged at least two blank sketchpads with her, just to be ready for that moment of inspiration.

Her drawings were delightful, her paintings were picturesque. Her sculptures surprised, those delicate mobiles must of hung in every girls' dorm, regardless of house. Even her photography had a different sort of elegance, the way the subjects moved about.

There was only one medium that she lacked in- and it was her way with words.

She could speak well of course,

(as if Percy Weasley would let one of his daughters not be eloquent)

But between her mouth and the written something was lost.

She cursed it, it wa scar on her reputation.

(But here's the kicker, no one knew)

.

She told herself it was a simple mistake, an accident. Molly Weasley didn't cheat.

(Not until Friday, December 13 of her sixth year that is.)

It was a contest, a  _contest_. A contest she was expected to win, even if no one had seen any of her writing.

Flitwick wanted a poem, a simple thing really. All to get the school in the Christmas Spirit.

Write. Crumple. Toss. Write. Crumple. Toss.

It was a pesky routine that wouldn't go away.

Until that day.

.

"Marnie, I hear you're submitting a poem for the contest?"

The shy Ravenclaw nodded and gathered her papers quickly as Transfiguration ended. Molly caught the title of one and her eyebrow raised.

"That's a fantastic title." The other girl blushed rose and hustled out of the room with a whispered thanks.

In her hurry she didn't notice the parchment that fluttered to the floor behind her. However someone did- and they snatched it up before anyone was the wiser.

.

Shaky hands placed the final product on Professor Flitwick's desk. He gave Molly a warm smile.

"I cannot wait to read it."

She nodded with a quick smile before hustling out of the room, heart poundpoundpounding.

(shaking with regret... and a slight quiver of  _victory_ )

And as far as she could tell, no one else would know.

.

She (tried to) forget about it for the next two weeks but the words seemed to swim around her everywhere. In her books, her essays, on notices and chocolate frog cards.

She avoided the topic like the plague, and she reveal and information.

(and it's kind of funny, because some thought she was being modest, others though she was being shy but no one expected the real reason. Then again, it wasn't something she was trying to _advertise_.)

The day before Christmas Eve arrived sooner than expected for her, and she entered the Great Hall that morning head bowed. Everyone was bustling around, making sure to grab back borrowed items before they headed home for the holidays. She busied herself with breakfast and even the grand _gorgeous_ glittering decorations couldn't soothe her mind.

Tiny Professor Flitwick was standing on a small stool at the head of the Hall, trying frantically to get everyone's attention. It wasn't until everyone (sort of) had quieted down that he spoke.

"I want to thank everyone who entered my contest and would like to read and announce the winning poem for you all!" Some students rolled their eyes, going back to their conversations (stupid Slytherins), while others listened attentively (Marnie Reynold, herself).

"The poem goes thus..." Flitwick's squeaky voice traveled through the Great Hall and suddenly the room felt all too small for her. Out of the corner of her eye she say Marnie's jaw drop in disbelief.

She made for the exit, stumbling into the corridor but still hearing the Professor's voice ring through the school.

And her stomach kept on turning at each word.

.

She had made it halfway to the dungeons when she heard the footsteps.

"You are such a prick, you know that?"

Molly turned around, duly surprised. Dominique stood a good fifteen paces behind her, a glass of pumpkin juice in one hand and half a piece of toast in the other.

"A real prick." she repeated.

"What are you talking about?" Molly exclaimed, feigning innocence.

(but her heart was racing because if there was anyone who wouldn't fall for it, it would be Dominique)

"What am I talking about? What am I- That isn't your poem! How big of a moron do you take me for?"

(Bluff called.)

"So what? No one cares! No one knows, no one doubts me, everyone is happy!" she spat.

"Oh no one? How about Marnie? I'm sure she does. And Flitwick, he probably wouldn't appreciate the knowledge now would he? 'Cause I really she tell him y'know. Me being a prefect in all. And what would dear Lysander say if he knew his girlfriend was a cheater? Perhaps he would wonder if you cheated in relationships too?" Dominique said, finishing her toast.

"Shut up! You wouldn't tell, it'd ruin your reputation too. I still don't even know how you were made a prefect. And I know you wish you were fucking my boyfriend but your word against mine? Are you daft? My word against yours? You two may be friends, but let's face it. You're just the pathetic little wanna be tough girl who plays with the guys because the girls don't want to be associated with her!"

Molly stopped her rant short, not knowing where all these words were coming from. Dominique was standing before her, slack jawed.

"You're like my sister. You are a fucking carbon copy! Is that all you know how to do? Copy people? People say imitation is the highest form of flattery but you know what I say? I saw it's for unimaginative little bitches who think they were born with a silver spoon in their mouth!" Dominique dropped her glass on the ground and walked away, not bothering to pick it up.

Molly sank to the ground against the wall, observing the broken glass around her.

A lovely picture she thought. But then another thought came to her.

_A lovely picture. But what is a picture? Just an imitation, a copy of what had really been there._


	10. Lucy Weasley

x. tiny dancer

She was the quieter sister, when compared to outgoing, lovable Molly. The smart, quiet, perfectionist Ravenclaw.

But these smarts only extended into what she liked to refer to as the 'two groups'. Group A was schoolwork, group B was dancing.

As expected, little Lucy Weasley was the top of her year, known for spending hours upon hours each night working and sometimes turning quite cranky when disturbed. Though, no one really disturbed her often. No actually heard her speak much, with the exception of the occasional question or answer in class.

What wasn't expected was her affinity for dance, specifically ballet.

Like her schoolwork, she was completely driven to perfecting every move she learned over the years. Even as a first year, it was not uncommon for anyone to walk into the common room and see her doing plié relevé whilst dictating an essay via a (new and improved) quick notes quill, simply so she was practicing her dance.

It was the beginning of her third year though, when everything changed; all due to a pair of shoes.

The pale pink point shoes, a gift from her mother, were her prized possession. She carried them around everywhere with her, not allowing them out of her sight.

Practice practice practice until everything was perfect. And as her moves were becoming more satisfactory and her grades were consistently high, she needed something else to make absolutely correct.

She found it in the mirror of her dorm on a chilly October evening. Turned sideways and dismayed to see a bump extending over her jeans. She sucked in her stomach, reveling in the flatness of it. But she couldn't hold her breath forever, the only other solution was to make it disappear permanently.

The first two weeks were the hardest.

But it became easier (far too easy) and Little Lucy was slowly becoming Tiny Lucy and ever observant, Lorcan was afraid she would just disappear one day.

Nearly anything she wore looked to big on her and her collarbone and hipbones and sholder blades protruded too much. She was tired more often, her tiny body sapping her strength. And for her, it made dancing so much harder. Yet she stuck with dance and stuck with this strict diet and by her fourth year she had lost 17 pounds, to weigh a 'perfect' 100.

And perfection was all she really wanted.

.

As it was, Lorcan wasn't the only observant one. Rose Weasley was also watching her older cousin with worried eyes. She would sit with the Gryffindors and peer across the Great Hall to see food being pushed at but not eaten. And it made her want to scream.

"Luce," she approached her cousin one day, late in December as they were heading opposite ways, her to Potions and Lucy to Transfiguration.

"Yes, Rose?" Rose frowned and pulled her aside, gripping her arm lightly, terrified it would snap if she held on any tighter.

"Nothing, I just wanted to chat. Cousin to cousin."

"Right," Lucy looked down the corridor, not wishing to have the conversation she could feel coming.

"How's dancing coming?" Rose asked her innocently.

"Well enough, I really have to go.."

"You know, a little more meat on those bones and it'd be so beneficial to the harder moves."

"I really have to go," Lucy said pulling away but finding Rose's grip too strong.

"Look at you," Rose hissed, her temper rising at her cousin's lack of realization, "You can't even pull away. Starving yourself is making things worse, Luce."

"I'd love it if you left me alone Rose. Goodbye," Lucy said, having taken out her wand and releasing herself with a small stinging hex on the younger girl's arm.

Rose stared at the tiny girl floating down the corridor. Something had to be done.

.

Lorcan was not thrilled by Rose's idea. But she had made a valid point. Only someone outside of the family could make her (stupid) plan possibly work.

So on New Year's Eve he found himself standing in the doorway of the small back room to the Burrow, watching the young girl before him dance.

She was brilliant really, floating through the air. But there was something missing, something that he (hardly an expert) could tell. She had the grace and delicacy (plenty of it) but she had no _power._ It dissipated before the turn or jump or fancy french sounding piece of footwork was completed.

Lorcan took a deep breath, looking at the term Rose had scrawled on his hand before stepping fully into the room. He clapped steadily, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet room.

"Luce, that's bloody brilliant!" he said, a smile plastered to his face (but inside his face was fall-fall-falling).

"Thank you," she responded demurely, pausing a moment before preforming a little curtsy.

"I was wondering," he said stepping closer and leaning against the pale yellow wall "if you could do a tour en l'air? Since you are so good,"

Lucy looked down at her pink clad feet, aching from hours of pointe work. "That's usually a boy's move..."

"Usually, but I'm sure you could do it!" He reached out, placing his hands on her tiny shoulders. She flinched.

"No, I don't think I can," she said, desperately trying to avoid conversation. She went to pull away but Lorcan's grip was too strong.

"Are you too small to do it?" he asked, feeling as though the words on his palm were burning a hole through his hand. How had he gotten stuck doing this?

Lucy looked up at him, with blazing eyes and all the /intensity/ that was missing from her dance. "Rose put you up to this, didn't she? Well go and tell her to bugger off, so what if I can't do that move? At least I'm small enough to be graceful."

Rose had mentioned that this might happen; she told Lorcan that he could just admit it and walk away and oh well they tried didn't they?

But Lorcan hadn't figured in his reaction. He had left out an important part of the equation.

(wasn't he supposed to be a Ravenclaw?)

He just couldn't understand  _why_  this beautiful/smart/talented girl would do this. Why would she ignore people who only wanted to help?

All he ever wanted to do was help people.

His hands tightened on her shoulders, and he took a step closer, forcing her to look straight up to see his face. "Small enough to be graceful? Is that all that matters to you? To weigh less than nothing? To make yourself- no, to make others miserable? Because they care about you!" Lorcan could never muster venom in his voice, he just didn't do that, but the anger still palatable, flat and simmering.

"I-"

"You what? Look at yourself, honestly Luce. You're barely strong enough to lift yourself. Look at us right now, tell me if you could begin to pull away? I could do whatever the hell I wanted and you would be helpless. Is that what you want Lucy? Is that what you want? For fuck's sake."

Lorcan released her quickly, shaking his head and slamming the wooden door behind him. Lucy stood frozen in the middle of the room, shocked.

Then she slunk slowly to the ground, her little skirt flaring out around her. She buried her face in her hands, tears streaming down her face.

Maybe perfection wasn't what she wanted.


	11. Fred Weasley

xi. how to be noticed

Forgettable Fred is how he liked to put it. 'It' being well, everybody's forgetfulness.

At first, he thought it might be him being ignored, not that that was much comfort because he still wouldn't have been able to figure out  _why_. He didn't think he was absurd or anything.

But for some reason or another, he was the forgotten Weasley. The 'Vic, Louis, Dom, Roxy, James, Molly, Lucy, Al, Rose, Lily, Hugo... and wait, aren't we forgetting someone?'. Or the 'other Hufflepuff' because really, Louis couldn't ever be forgotten.

Or perhaps it was the way he never was on a team because they counted an even number and well Fred, Fred made it odd. Or the way darling, older, Gryffindor Roxanne outshone him with her ever bubbly personality and Merlin, she was friends with Dom and Ly for crying aloud!

Or perhaps he really was just entirely forgettable. Not unique. Another face in the crowd. It doesn't really matter how it's put- it all means the same thing.

.

Breakout Fred is what he'd like to call himself now, in his New York flat (apartment, he reminds himself, apartment). And perhaps the  _apart_ ment is fitting because he's flown around the world to get here, to set himself apart from everyone. From Roxanne, the rest of his cousins. Everyone.

But now all he feels is apart (and lonely. Mainly that). That's not to say New York isn't wonderful of course. He does enjoy it, and he's made friends and to be honest, it's lovely when the name "Weasley" doesn't make every single head turn (only about 75% of them). And yeah, he's hardly forgettable here, slowly rising his way through the American Ministry of Magic.

But sometimes he would love to just go back home, even if it meant blending back in.


	12. Rose Weasley

xii. a crack in the stone

By all definitions, she was (academically) perfect.

Mother's brains, father's humor and all around Weasley personality, Rose Weasley was that person that  _everyone_ wanted to be friends with, regardless of house. She was the person who would stay up to all hours finishing essay to make it perfect, even if it would have already received an O in its current state. She was the one who panicked over an E. She was the person that could explain anything to anyone.

First to master the spells, wand movements, potions. Just about anything.

It was her niche, where she fit in and Godric, she was damned proud of it. And though someone might have assumed it was because her mother was brilliant or because her father prodded her, in reality she worked the way she did for  _herself_. Not doing her full potential, not giving everything was nearly nauseating.

Which in turn, resulted in stress (because no one can be perfect all the time).

.

Rose never even considered that one day she might fail at something. It just wasn't something she thought about.

Until she was sixteen. Until she was to take her apparation exam.

Practice and classes made her self conscious about it and with the date rapidly approaching, she thought she was going to collapse into a puddle.

Fred had clapped her on the back encouragingly as she headed off to Hogsmeade with other sixth years and Scorpius was being on his best behavior (although, that may have been more of avoiding the girl's anger than his actually kindness).

She walked into the building, feigning confidence and strode over to the examiner.

And then, for the first time in her life she failed.

.

Whether it was nerves, or she just couldn't do it, it didn't really matter. The examiner had given her a sympathetic smile and an 'I'm sorry, dear', showing a confused Rose the exit.

Scorpius was waiting eagerly outside the door for, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her off to the side.

"So? How'd it go?" he asked eagerly, hoping for once he may have bested the great Rose Weasley. But he wouldn't find out as Rose forced a smile a faked a laugh, responding in false cheer.

"Oh, I forget my bloody papers and they wouldn't let me take the exam! I all but begged but they told me I'd have to wait," she shrugged in what she hoped to be a nonchalant manner, "Whatever, I prefer flying anyhow."

Scorpius accepted the lie and yeah, she felt a little guilty about it.

But not as bad as it would feel to admit defeat.

Because she's Rose Molly Weasley and she's never wrong. Ever.


	13. Albus Potter

xiii. stubborn

He's stubborn as anything, his family can attest to that. and why wouldn't he be? A deadly combination of Potter and Weasley not to mention a Gryffindor to boot; Albus doesn't (won't) willingly admit he's wrong.

And it's far more dangerous than he cares to (ever will) realize.

.

He's not sure when it started, it's been hurting for so long he never has given it much thought. If he had to guess, it must have been around the beginning of his third year- the same year he made his debut as part of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

The practices were hard, there's no denying that. James, not only his coach but his brother, didn't ever go easier on him because of family relation. Neither was the game any more fogiving, difficult and dangerous in its nature.

For example, during his second match he fell fifteen feet from his broom and landed flat on his back, the frozen ground not offering much cushioning. His own team, as well as the Ravenclaw team rushed over. James had been flitting about:

"Are you alright? Do you want to sit down? Ice? See Madame Pomfrey?"

"James, shut up! I'm fine."

"Al-"

"I'm. Fine."

This was only the start of a long history of denial.

.

"Oof."

All the air rushed out his lungs as he was slammed into by Scorpius, who took the Quaffle grinning.

"Sorry, Al!"

Albus grimaced, sitting up straight on his broomstick and rushing after the Slytherin chaser (also known as his best mate). He bit his lip the rest of the match, a desperate attempt to keep the pain focused there and simply not acknowledge the pain in his back.

By sixth year, he'd already gotten his lip healed more times than he cared to remember for the same reason. And every time, Madame Pomfrey (bless her) scolded him for his 'horrid lip chewing' habit.

Still, sore lips were favorable than to missing matches (or class, or just about anything)

.

By seventh year and the lip biting had proved a second benefit- namely Allie Longbottom finding it endearing.

"You're so cute when you get nervous, biting your lip like that."

And Albus nodded because well, he wasn't going to name a real reason.

.

Something's going to give eventually, it's practically a law of nature. And for Albus, who had made it through three and a half years of Quidditch without ever taking a break- not for illness or an injury- he made it to the third match of seventh year before his body caved (his body, not mind).

They were playing Slytherin, a crucial game to decide who would have the shot at the Cup in each team's final game.

And once again, it was a hit from his best mate that sent the pain shooting up his spine.

The snitch was elusive and the game close. Albus had called for a pass, but it came up a bit short. He dived for the plummeting Quaffle, ignoring his protesting body. Scorpius, right on his heels, didn't realize Albus had reached the Quaffle until too late and went careening into him. And, in turn, Albus went careening off his broom, still clutching the Quaffle, down twenty five feet to the pitch below. Ten feet farther than his match in third year and with a host more problems accompanying him.

He passed out upon impact, with a sickening crunch that Olivia Parkinson would later swear she could hear all the way from the stands (but no one ever believed anything she said anyway, so this was a non-matter).

.

He woke up a week later, bleary eyed and laying perfectly level, a stiff splint around his middle.

"Madame Pomfrey?"

The elderly healer bustled around the room, "Yes?"

"Um, what exactly happened?"

"You nearly shattered your back! Under normal circumstances it shouldn't have injured it that much- only if there had been some previous issue with it. But with you the only issue I can attest to is your lip biting! Which had quite a nasty cut in it upon landing, may I add."

Albus groaned and slammed his head back against the mattress. On the table beside his bed, there were several notes- from the Headmistress to his father and brother- forbidding him from playing in the final match. They were all signed by Madame Pomfrey.

He cursed violently. All this over a split lip.

(because it was three and a half years since he started and he is still in denial)

 


	14. Scorpius Malfoy

xiv. pride

You know how it is, having a family. How it is to complain and hate on and make fun of them. And hell, you're more than entitled to, aren't you? Because you're part of it, the whole damn mess.

You can say whatever you want and feel nothing but they- they don't have damn right.

That doesn't stop them though, never has. Never has it stopped the name of Malfoy from being spat in the streets and corridors and in your ear. Your father is a monster, just like his father before him. Your mother is weak and pathetic for marrying into the damn family and your grandmother is just a frigid ice queen, isn't she?

(whisperwhisper)

You can hear it, all of it, contrary to popular belief. Every single sentence makes your blood boil and temper flare.

(because no one makes fun of your family, no one. except you of course)

.

You're rebuilding a castle and the feat is huge. You've been laying the foundation for years around the scattered pieces o y. First year and you're the Slytherin with the heart of gold. Third year and you've become fast friends with a Potter.

(Potter? A Malfoy and a Potter?)

Sixth year it's a prefect and quidditch captain to boot now that Scamander is gone.

And sixth year the castle is starting to wear.

In retrospect, the comment should not have caused such an uproar and okay, maybe,  _maybe_  you over-reacted. But you still feel justified, after all it was a slight on her and a slight on you and a slight on your whole family. What kind of friend would you be if let it slide?

Henry Smith's eye swells instantly. Yours barely bears a mark.

Rose approaches you later, frowning in disapproval, "That was unnecessary, you know." You don't turn your head but glance at her in the edge of your vision.

"Wrong. It was completely necessary."

"Damn it, Scorpius! It was not! You're just feeding it by reacting. Whatever foul horseshit that comes out of that tosser's mouth gains solidity when you turn and haul off on him!"

Now you turn, glaring at your best friend with the blue eyes and auburn curls and only the best intentions.

"Rose, get out."

.

Pride is something that is sometimes illogical to outside viewer. Yet to you it all makes perfect sense when you shyly owl Harry Potter for an interview and send it to Lorcan who in turn shoots it down to Roxanne who eagerly edits and publishes it in the Daily Prophet the following week.

(The paper has pulled a 180 since twenty years ago. Being purchased by Andromeda Tonks probably didn't hurt either)

The front page has a colored photo of your parents and grandmother. They wave tentatively, but look pleased.

(And all of them have on their best aristocratic smile)

 **Pride** the headline reads above it,  _The secrets and truths of the Malfoy and Black families, with an exclusive interview by Harry Potter._

When you sees the last name, you knows you're set because years after the end of the war the name 'Potter' still draws attention.

 _Blacks and Greengrasses Who Broke Tradition_ and  _Who Really Brought About Voldemort's Death?_  and  _Who Killed Dumbledore?_

The headers cause you to grin, grateful that Harry had agreed to share some details about those infamous nights to be added to the stories you already knew. Because even though you sometimes hate your name and your family and everything they had stood for in the past century,

You were also fiercely proud of them.


	15. Hugo Weasley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: domestic abuse

xv. this isn't a matter of weakness.

His life is a whirlwind, a mess of small smiles and fading bruises. His taps along the beat, keeping time with his foot and punching notes into the old piano just in rhythm with the punches landing on him.

But Hugo Weasley isn't weak- this isn't a matter of weakness.

.

He never did pinpoint  _when_  she caught his eye, her dark hair and dark eyes and a personality sweet as melted chocolate (or so it seems). Lily was thrilled, beyond thrilled actually, because she was Lily and she didn't half-ass things, especially emotions.

"She's just the perfect girl," she crowed gleefully, "to get you out of this 'angsty musician' thing you have going."

Hugo had frowned and shoved his cousin playfully, one of the few people who could do so without her letting loose on them.

She was only a sixth year, when he himself was in his final year at Hogwarts. And a year later, when she graduates, she moves in with him in his small flat above a muggle bakery in London, similar to the many nights she spent in his dorm. But the best part is that she doesn't have to leave.

He's a young-twenty something and the days are long with even longer nights. He works a desk-job at the Ministry, in a position his father finagled for him, because he has to. He spends hours each night writing music and tapping away on the piano he bought from an elderly muggle couple who was moving out purely because he wants to.

Each day she comes home from St. Mungo's and healing (and the poor boy has yet to realize the irony), still looking as put-together as when she walked out the door nine hours prior.

His job is stable, his girlfriend's beautiful and music flows through his veins like some wild drug singing of great days.

.

Lily knocks- bangs- on his door one night, dressed to the nines and welcomes herself into the flat.

"Hugo, my man! You coming out tonight?" she asks, pouring herself a glass of water. Hugo hesitates and quickly is relieved as Jess comes sweeping into the room, her hair thrown askew and one of his shirts draped over her tiny shoulders. She stares at Lily a moment then giggles, "Actually, Lily, me and Hugo have other plans," she says, winding her arms around her boyfriend.

Lily pauses, staring at the couple, before shrugging and taking off toward the door, "Well, your loss then." She closes the door halfway, before poking her head back in, smiling devilishly.

"By the way, Shruken Heads are playing." With a final smirk, she flitted out of the door. Hugo paused turning toward Jess, "Maybe it wouldn't hurt to go out tonight.."

He was interrupted as her nails dug sharply into his wrist, "But Hugo! We already have plans!" The nails dig deeper and her voice, though covered in a film of playfulness, is steel underneath. Hugo back steps quickly.

"You're right, they'll always be playing another time."

The first bruises form the next day.

.

They, the bruises that is, begin to adorn his arms. Pinpricks of nails, ones wide as palms and deep colored fists. When he visits home (increasingly rarely), he wears long-sleeves, even in late May.

"Aren't you hot?" his mother ask, handing him a glass of lemonade. He downs it greedily, praying that any sweat stays away from his face.

"No, mum, I'm fine."

.

He thinks the progression is slow, though granted he never dwells on it. so really, it's Lily doing the thinking, as she often does, coming around his flat whenever Jess isn't home and leaving long before she is.

"Lil, why do you hate her? She's nice enough and she's never done anything to you!" he asks his cousin one day, while they both head through the Ministry to the Auror department. Him, for work and her, to visit her dad. Lily looks taken aback.

"Jess? What the hell are you on? Of course I hate her, she's a bitch! She's a horrible girlfriend and for months now I've been trying to get that through your thick skull!"

"Lily that's not fa-"

"No! Shut up, Hugo! Honestly, when's the last time you wrote something? Banged around on that piano you insisted on dragging up to your flat, so that your muggle neighbors didn't suspect anything?"

"I play plenty-"

"Bullshit. You probably haven't in the last half-year. Why? Because of fucking Jess, who hates it. Why? Because it distracts her from healing? Does it actually? No, she's distracted because she's too busy shagging her co-"

"SHUT UP!" Hugo roars, much to the surprise of the red-head next to him and the general populace of the corridor. He winces as a fading bruise of his neck stretches. Lily stops talking abruptly, eyeing him up and down. She places her hand on the door handle of her father's office.

"I was only trying to help, Hugo."

The door shuts softly behind her and Hugo is left standing there confused, upset and not a single note pounding through his veins.

.

He leaves work early the next day, trudging home unhappily, still not speaking to his cousin. He supposes he should apologize, but it really was fair of Lily to make unfounded accusat-

His heart stops when he opens the door, as noises come from the bedroom. He's most certainly not alone.

He walks through the house quietly, hand flexing and relaxing on the handle to the bedroom door before opening it quickly. Jess swears loudly, grabbing the blanket to her chin as her workmate.. whatever the fuck his name is, falls to the floor. And in the doorway, Hugo doesn't yell or get angry at all.

He simply walks back out, apparating to the Burrow where an old decrepit piano lays silent. But not for long.

The chords start slow, but gather speed as his love for the girl with the dark hair and dark eyes and personality like viper venom shatters in a thousand pieces on ivory keys.


	16. Lily Potter

xvi. stained glass inhibitions

Though she would never admit it willingly (a horrible skill she'd learned from her older cousin), Lily Luna Potter was, in fact, not perfect.

If anything, then perhaps perfectly fallible. Which would explain why she was standing at the entrance of grand cathedral dripping wet, droplets of water spiraling down her hair and echoing as they hit the stone floor with a small plunk.

Although even her unspoken fallibility can't simply explain the situation. After all, how many witches find themselves wandless in a muggle house of worship?

One.

Only Lily, always Lily.

The cathedral is empty but the candles are lit and Lily is a bit confused as to why that makes sense. Why would muggles waste a perfectly good candle if no one was using it?

The floor was freezing against her bare feet and she grudgingly put back on the uncomfortable heels she'd been wearing at Dom's wedding. Her dress hung limply at her knees; the green darkened by the water and reminding her vaguely of Nott's infamous dress robes.

She laughed and the sound resonated; it was lonely in its volume.

.

She was quick on the trigger. The loudest, most brash of the Slytherin house- surpassing Dominique and Lysander combined. Most people assumed is was the Gryffindor blood undoubtedly flowing through her veins but no one ever made the mistake of voicing their opinion to her: they quickly realized that she still was a Slytherin, regardless of her family.

Some call her unstable.

Her friends just shrug and laugh.

And that's when Lily gets her hands on the firewhiskey and the girls begin to worry [not necessarily about Lily] and the entire male population of the Slytherin house (for starters) all but get in line to try their luck with the firecracker.

.

"He just wants to get in your pants, Lil'," Jesse Nott told her, watching idly from her bed as Lily pulled her hair roughly into something resembling a ponytail. Lily scowled at her friend in the mirror.

"So? Maybe I want him in my pants," she retorted.

"Smith is a prick and you know it."

"And on whose authority do you know that?"

"Potter," she said shortly.

"Nott," Lily replied, mocking. Jesse poked her with her wand.

"It's not going to change anything with Teddy either."

"Fuck off, Nott."

"You wouldn't do it if you were sober."

"I said, fuck off."

.

The next morning she wakes up with a massive hangover and tangled in the sheets of the Ravenclaw common room. It's moments like these she is beyond glad it's only her and Hugo left at Hogwarts.

It's these same moments that she hates to admit when her friend is right.

Especially the fourth time in the month.

.

"Excited to be out of Hogwarts, Lily?"

The young woman in question reaches across the table for the eggs, determinedly not looking across from her nor asking for them. Teddy sighs.

"S'alright mum. I kind of miss Quidditch though," she says, a smirk crawling across her face.

"You didn't even play!" her brother, James that is, says incredulously.

"Yes, but I had friends who did."

"Speaking of which," Ginny says, sensing the conversation is shifting into unwanted territory, "Where have they been? I haven't seen Jesse in ages."

Lily shrugs, "She's off with her mum somewhere. Canada maybe? It could have been the States though."

Lily knows how to end a conversation with a single sentence [years of practice] and that's her final one as she stands, pushing her plate aside with a "Thanks, mum" and flying upstairs before she says or does anything stupid.

Downstairs Teddy goes back to his meal, forcing himself to avoid shifting his eyes to where she'd run off too but wishing all the same he could follow without being hexed. Mainly by her, most likely by James.

He's not sure about Ginny.

.

The dress feels suffocating when she slips it in on during the mid- August heat. Under normal circumstances, she'd complain but it's short at least and green and it's Dom's wedding after all- nearly six years in the making by Lily's count- so she figures she owes her this much.

Besides, it doesn't look to bad on her and well, Victoire isn't in one.

She snickers at the thought.

"You ready Lil'?" The woman of the moment pokes her head in the doorway, a braid crowning her head and the rest falling in sheets of red down her back. She'd be the picture of innocence- until the tattoo down her spine peeks out of the curtains. Lily smiles.

"Of course," she says, grabbing the trio of orchids on the stool.

"Good- also, there's been a change in the line-up. So play it cool, yeah?"

Lily doesn't really listen- until she reaches the back door of the Burrow to see Teddy Lupin standing there, waiting for her, and looking awfully uncomfortable.

Bloody hell Dominique.

.

She walks with him down the aisle, focusing her attention on Roxanne's back rather than the pleasant feeling of her hand in his.

They split at the front, and she drifts next to Roxanne as Dom turns out of the Burrow with her uncle.

"Convenient switch, yeah?" Roxanne whispers. Lily breathes deeply.

"Just fantastic."

"Aren't you-"

"Rox, let's just watch our cousin get married, okay?"

But even as Dominique turned heads, every drop of Veela blood in her glowing, Lily was distracted by turquoise hair across the way.

.

"Don't you think-" said Roxanne, starting in on her younger cousin who was on her fourth (fifth?) glass of night already.

"No," she said shortly, cutting the curly haired girl off, downing the rest of the shot and getting up slightly more steadily sans heels.

"Lily!" Roxanne hissed, watching the red head disappear into the crowd. Swearing violently, she wandered after her. "Merlin, I'm going to need a drink of my own soon."

.

"Long time no see," she says, sliding up alongside him, her hand brushing against his arm lightly. He shivered as she smiled slowly up at him, eyes bright.

"Lily," he says warily.

"Mhm?"

She's much too close now, tapping her fingers against his kneecap. He blushes, fighting to keep his hair a neutral shade of turquoise and not the blinding red that would match his face to perfection. Or her hair, for that matter. Swallowing heavily he tries again, slowly taking a step back.

"Lily, you're drunk."

"M'not."

"Lils."

"Maybe, maybe a little. But so are you Teddy Lupin!"

"I've had two drinks, Lily."

Her eyes shine devilishly and she takes a step back on her own accord: "But you'll have more eventually," she says, turning and sashaying away through the crowd. Teddy sighs yet again and decides that girl will be the death of him.

.

She bites his lip as he musses her hair. She works the dress robes off him to meet her dress already a puddle on the floor before collapsing onto the bed.

Fire is running through her veins, her eyes wide and for the better part of an hour she fancies herself infallble.

.

He's gone in the morning, his flat silent. She hears the soft hum of Muggle London coming in through the cracked window across the room. She feels the panic rising inside her as she gives a quick search of the place. His robes from last night are still on the floor.

Anger takes over and she pulls on the dress and grabs the heels and flies out the door without looking back, not seeing the note

_Had to run out real quick. Be back shortly- don't leave!_ _  
_ _-Teddy_

.

The rain starts ten minutes later and she's lost as  _fuck_  and the muggle tube system is far more confusing than necessary. Her head is pounding, her feet ache and she's cold or all this in the warm rain.

The cathedral is warm and inviting from the outside- pretty glass decorating the windows; she's always had a weakness for pretty things.

.

She laughs and the water dripping down her forehead is indistinguishable from tears.

 


End file.
